by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
Bill brought his mind back to the present. Max had a right to his life, a life without nosy reporters trying to track him down just for the sake of a photo op. The boy’d had enough of that when he was growing up halfway around the world.
"Sorry, honey, flattery isn’t going to get you anything but a smile from an old man." Bill glanced at his watch. It was almost one. "A hungry old man who wants to clear out and get some lunch, so if you don’t mind —" He looked at her pointedly, indicating the outer door.
She was right about this, Chelsea thought, she had to be. Which meant the old man was deliberately lying to her.
"You want me to leave," she said.
Hands on the wheels of his chair, Bill grinned. "I always did admire a bright young lady." Using his chair as if it were an old-fashioned cow pony, Bill herded the young woman who had walked into his grandson’s office 10 minutes ago toward the door. "Now, if you don't mind, my stomach’s growling —"
Chelsea had no choice but to back out the door. She glanced at the lettering across the top. M. Ryker, Private Investigator. Ryker had been the duke’s American mother’s name.
Her gut told her she was right. She just had to get someone to verify it.
Glancing up and down the corridor to make sure there was no one around to see her, Chelsea skillfully put that long-ago lesson to use and wondered what had ever happened to Larry. Probably serving five to ten for burglary in Soledad, she mused.
The door gave.
Chelsea smiled as she let herself in.
Looking at her watch, she took note of the time. She had maybe 15 minutes at best to find what she was looking for. Some kind of tangible proof that Max Ryker was really Maximillian Sebastiani, the Disenchanted Duke.
She already knew that Maximillian himself was out of the state. That much the guardian at the gate had volunteered when she’d asked to speak to Ryker. Which meant that all she had to worry about was the old man’s return.
The office wasn’t very large and she went through it swiftly. It was incredibly neat and not what she would have expected from an office run by two men. In lieu of the usual paper clutter, there was a state-of-the-art computer. Everything, apparently, was locked up in its hard drive.
Chelsea’s smile broadened. Beneath her short blond hair and small, curvy body beat the soul of a consummate computer nerd. She’d fallen in love with her first CPU at the age of seven and the affair had never ended. There were very few computers she couldn’t get into.
Switching the computer on, she saw the customary request for a password winking at her. The obstacle proved to be nonexistent. After several guesses, she’d typed in "Helen," Maximillian’s mother’s name.
Access was approved.
She lost no time in opening files and surfing through folders.
Embedded in a program designed to enhance surveillance photos were pictures of the royal family. Including one of Maximillian with his mother and the late duke.
"Bingo." Quickly, she hit the print button, knowing she had used up most of her margin of time. The printer on the desk came to life, emitting a grinding noise.
She didn’t hear him until he cleared his throat a second time.
Gathering the newly printed photographs together, the sensation that she was no longer alone made her glance up. Her heart launched into a Sousa March.
But the person in the room wasn’t the old man, ready to have her hauled away for this clear violation of at least half a dozen criminal laws. Instead, the man standing in the doorway was quite possibly the handsomest man she had ever seen outside of her own dreams.
Maybe even inside them, as well.
Chapter Two
It was too early in the day for hallucinations. It wasn’t hot in the office and she wasn’t suffering from a fever.
Chelsea blinked again, but Mr. Gorgeous was still in the room. Not only that, but he was coming toward her, his hand extended. In his other hand, he held a piece of folded paper and he glanced at it, as if to make sure of an address, before pocketing it.
"Hello, I’m Tristan Robertson. Are you M. Ryker?"
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she was anyone he wanted her to be. Her next response was a complete 180-degree reversal, grounded in reality and she began to say that he’d made a mistake.
But in that split second her brain quickly telegraphed a message to her. She could revamp her as yet unwritten piece. Rather than merely "Discovering the Disenchanted Duke," why not something along the lines of "Walking a Mile in the Disenchanted Duke’s Royal Shoes"? He was a private investigator, a hired detective, right? The man before her was clearly the kind of client the duke dealt with. If she was going to understand the allure of Maximillian’s American life and how he lived it, what better way than to emulate him?
She rose from the desk, a wide smile on her face, her hand extended to his. "Yes, I am."
Tristan nodded, relieved. "What’s the M stand for?"
Her mother’s name came to the rescue. "Miranda." She noticed the way he was looking at the pin on her lapel. The one with the C on it. "But my friends call me Chelsea."
He took the hand she offered. "How do you get Chelsea out of Miranda?"
"I don't." Her smile was quick, glib and he liked it instantly. "It’s my middle name. Keeps people from getting me confused with my mother. I was named after her." There, that sounded plausible. "What can I do for you?"
Tristan blew out a breath, glancing back toward the outer door he’d closed behind him. "Someone’s after me and I don't know why."
Right off the top of her head, she could easily envision at least half a dozen women pursuing this man. He was mouthwateringly gorgeous. The kind of man you rarely saw outside of a movie screen. "After you. You mean like a stalker?"
He ran a hand through pitch-black hair that was already slightly mussed in contrast to his impeccable light gray designer suit and bright blue custom-made shirt. "Something like that, except without the romance." He paused. "And with gunfire—"
Her eyes widened. Gunfire. Maybe she was biting off a little more than she could safely chew. Chelsea debated retracting her previous affirmation about being M. Ryker. The sound of someone turning the doorknob in the outer office aborted the debate.
Her eyes darted toward Tristan. He didn’t look nervous so much as exasperated. "I think they followed me here."
She doubted it. Things like that happened in movies. It was probably the old man returning from lunch. Just her luck, he believed in takeout.
Chelsea capitalized on Tristan’s fear.
"Why don't we just step out this way?"
Turning, Tristan saw that the sexy blonde was already opening up the window behind the desk. It let out onto the parking lot. And escape.
He was behind her in a heartbeat. These people were not the reasonable sort. If they were, he wouldn’t have been in fear of his life.
“You’ve done this before?” he asked, marveling at the agile way she slid out.
“Once or twice,” she admitted.
She didn’t elaborate that at the time she’d been escaping detection by an angry restaurant owner who hadn’t wanted his grievous kitchen practices or the fact that he was paying off someone at the county health inspection office to come to light. She’d cut her teeth on stories like that, but she had only been the journalist’s assistant then and none of the credit had gone to her. She was only “staff.” Now she was determined to get her own byline.
Running toward the parking structure where she had left her car, Chelsea’s innate curiosity had her turning around to look toward the eight-story building they’d just vacated.
Someone had come to Ryker’s window. The sun was in her eyes so she couldn’t make out the form, but it appeared to be a great deal taller than a man in a wheelchair – unless the man had somehow stood up.
Was there really someone after Robertson?
The next second, the silent question was answered. There was a noise vaguely like the sound of a champagne
cork exploding out of a bottle.
Except that this time, the cork was lethal.
The next thing she knew, she was being tackled and thrown to the ground behind a parked car. Mr. Gorgeous was on top of her. Startled, she raised her knee, about to forcefully reposition it where it could do the most good when he looked down at her, concern etched on his tanned complexion.
“Are you all right?”
She lowered her knee slightly, but kept it tensed just in case. “I will be once you get off me.”
Tristan raised his head, looking around the car as far as he dared, only partially moving his body from hers. Chelsea felt heat radiating up and down every inch of her. It wasn’t that warm a day. “He’s not at the window anymore.”
Chelsea swallowed. Her mouth was drier than detergent. “That’s nice to know. Who’s not at the window anymore?”
Rising, Tristan extended his hand to her. “The man who’s after me. One of the men,” he corrected, then looked at her. “I think there’s two.” At least, that was the number of men he’d seen in the car that had tried to run him down. “Maybe more.”
This didn’t sound good. But a story was a story, and in order to write one, she and this man shouldn’t be standing around out here like veritable ducks in a shooting gallery.
Chelsea grabbed his hand. “C’mon.”
Hurrying, she quickly led the way into the bowels of the parking structure to where she had parked her car. It was at the far end of the first floor. For a moment, the sound of her heels clicking along the concrete was the only detectable noise.
And then there was the sound of footsteps behind them. Running footsteps. Something whizzed by her head. It might have been a bee bent on breaking the sound barrier, but somehow Chelsea doubted it. More likely, it was the tall, dark handsome stranger’s playmates.
She was not about to waste time making any kind of inquires.
Still holding onto Tristan’s hand and vaguely contemplating the wisdom of having told him she was M. Ryker, Chelsea broke into a dead run as if her life depended on it.
Because it did.
Chapter Three
Chelsea waited until the waiter had placed their coffee and dessert before them and withdrawn before asking Tristan, "Have you gone to the police with this?"
Tristan's mouth curved in a self-depreciating smile. He didn't like not being in control of things and he was definitely not in control here. The last 15 minutes and a whirlwind drive through the streets of L.A. had clearly shown him that. But at least they had lost the two men and were safe. For now.
"And said what? That someone's shooting at me?"
She took a sip of her coffee. "Sounds like a good opener to me."
With little information to offer, Tristan knew there would be no way the overburdened police department could help. "Problem is, I don't have anything to follow it up with. I didn't get enough of a look at either of those men to give a sketch artist details to draw anything beyond stick figures."
She studied Tristan over the rim of her cup, trying to think of reasons someone would have it in for him. "No jealous husband in the wings?"
He set down his cup. She'd lost him. "What do you mean?"
A P.I. would be blunt, right? Chelsea forged on, getting into her role. "I mean, are you seeing anyone's wife?"
Tristan laughed shortly. Up until a week ago, his life had been a nonstop marathon at work. "I'm not even seeing anyone's daughter. My job keeps me pretty busy."
She wrapped her hands around her cup. Maybe he was a spy. He certainly looked as if he could slip into James Bond's suits — and sheets. "What is it you do?"
"I'm a senior CEO at Gabrielle." He didn't add that he was newly promoted and that it had taken an almost insurmountable amount of work to get there.
"The cosmetic company?" When he nodded, she grinned, thinking of her medicine cabinet. "Small world. I use your products."
"The stockholders'll be happy to hear that." He allowed himself a smile. Wrapped up in a moment's respite, Tristan looked at the woman sitting across from him in the dimly lit restaurant she had brought him to. It was as if he suddenly saw her for the first time. Her features were almost perfect. "Although I don't think you'd need to rely on them."
His compliment pleased her. It took a second to pull herself back into her role. "Are you working on any big breakthroughs — anything that might spark this kind of, um, 'attention'?"
He shook his head. Up until a week ago, his life had been hectic, but predictable. With no surprises. "I'm just the backup man." He wasn't in charge of development at Gabrielle, not yet. The edginess he'd been living with broke through. "Look, what does this have to do with the men who are after me?"
"Probably nothing. Just exploring the possibilities." Chelsea lifted a brow, as well as her fork, poising it over the Boston cream pie Tristan had ordered. The slice he hadn't touched. "May I?"
He gestured toward the plate. Though he'd ordered the dessert at the woman's behest, his appetite was nowhere in sight. "Be my guest."
Sampling a taste, she sighed. "Never could decide between chocolate cream pie and Boston cream pie."
"Here." He pushed his plate toward her. "Knock yourself out." Tristan wondered where she put it. The woman certainly didn't look as if she was carrying an ounce more that she should be.
Savoring the second piece, Chelsea tried to make sense of what was going on in Tristan's life. So far, he came across like a monk. A very sexy monk. "When did all this start —?"
She'd asked him a number of questions already; it was time he asked one of his own. "Then you'll take the case?"
Chelsea blinked. Did she forget to say that? "Sorry, I thought that was understood when we were fleeing for our lives back there."
She looked more intent on consuming the dessert than she did about her work.
"Shouldn't we discuss your fee?" he asked.
Other than what she'd picked up on late night reruns of defunct detective shows, Chelsea had absolutely no idea what the going rate for private investigation was these days. When in doubt, hedge.
"I'll have my secretary get in touch with you about all that." Finished, she pushed the plate aside and flashed him a smile. "I don't get involved in the money end of it."
He supposed that sounded plausible.
She knew he was waiting for her to make noises like a P.I. She did her best. "All right, when did all this start?" she repeated.
"Last week." He realized he wasn't being specific enough. "Last Monday."
The man was not a font of information. "What happened?" she pressed.
"I think someone tried to run me down," he replied.
Maybe it had been just a drunk driver, she thought, or a careless one, too frightened to stop. "Anything out of the ordinary happen last Monday?"
Tristan stared at her. Wasn't that enough for her? "Other than someone trying to run me down?"
She smiled, trying to encourage him to loosen up a little. If she was going to go through this pretense, she wanted to do it right. "Yes, other than that."
Tristan tried not to notice that her eyes were an intense blue when she looked up at him like that. "I got an office with a view. It went with the promotion," he added.
"Well, I doubt anyone would stalk you over a view." Still, maybe there was some kind of connection. "That promotion, anyone else in line for it?"
He thought of Evans and Henderson, neither of whom could bench press the weight of an anemic Chihuahua or kill a fly. "Nobody that would kill for it."
The shots earlier hadn't hit him and neither had the car. "Maybe they're not trying to kill you. Maybe they're just trying to scare you."
That didn't make any sense to him. "Why?"
Good question, she thought. "That's the part we need to find out." She nodded a silent thanks to the waiter as he refilled her cup. "Do you owe anyone any money?"
He thought in terms of mortgages and loans. "You mean like a bank?"
He really was straight, wasn't he?
She smiled, amused and more than a little attracted. "No, like a bookie, a loan shark, a drug dealer."
Tristan stared at her. She was talking about a whole other world, one he'd never gotten any closer to than in the movie theater. "Do I look like the type of man who would go to a bookie or a loan shark or a drug dealer?"
This time, she grinned. "Off hand, I'd say no, but appearances can be deceiving."
His eyes swept over her. "I suppose you're right. You don't look like a private investigator."
"Oh?" Amusement curved her mouth. "What do I look like?"
"Fun." He was more surprised than she at the single-word summation. "Sorry, I didn't mean to say that."
The response intrigued her. "No, wait. Explain that."
He wondered if he'd insulted her, or somehow managed to trivialize what she did. "You just look like someone who would be fun to be with." Tristan looked away. When had he lost the ability to communicate? "I guess I've been working so hard to get ahead, I forgot why I was working."
She took a guess, trying to put him at his ease. "To put a roof over your head?"
It was way more than that. "To lay the foundations for a good life. Doesn't feel so good when I can't take the time to enjoy it and don't have anyone to enjoy it with." When he looked at her again, she was looking back. Smiling. "What?"
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were describing my life," said Chelsea.
"Yours?"
She nodded. "I've been so busy trying to make a name for myself, I haven't had the time to stop and smell the roses." She looked at him for a long moment. "Or get to know the men holding them."
Sensuality swirled around him. Hers. "Maybe you should," he said.
She couldn't draw her eyes away from his mouth. "Yeah, maybe I should."
Tristan had no idea what possessed him. Maybe it was the incredible fact that he was dodging bullets rather than deadlines. Maybe it was because he'd suddenly, at the age of 32, become aware of his own mortality.
